


just call my name

by juliusschmidt



Series: harry, you little shit [10]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Sex Toys, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, Harry's ready for his heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just call my name

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Thank you for all your encouragement and patience during the fic's long hiatus. I'm not going to make any promises, but my life has finally settled into a routine and I'm writing very regularly, so the updates should be about two weeks apart from here on out. 
> 
> 2) Thank you to Melanie ([cheekysstyles](http://cheekysstyles.tumblr.com)) for the beta. She definitely helped renew my energy around this story!! 
> 
> 3) Title's from this song ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6pAxF2br_U)). :)
> 
> 4) The series begins [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/946132) and the most recent part is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1796095%22).

Harry spends several hours online searching for flats in different parts of town. He shouldn’t be living with Louis. It was a bad idea from the start. Because, even though he’s a dick for saying it to Harry’s face, Louis’ right. Harry thinks he _has_ been a bit of a tease, kissing Louis and sleeping with him, but not wanting anything more.

He hasn’t meant to be a tease. But now, in the darkness of his room lit only by the glow of his computer screen, he can admit that it’s only natural that he’d seem sort of whorish to Louis.

So, he needs to leave.

He runs into trouble straight away with the housing applications. They all require someone over eighteen to sign the lease and they all ask for the potential resident’s gender. He can’t live on his own, he realizes.

Through a series of one-word texts with Zayn, Harry works it out so that he can stay with him for awhile. He packs his bag the next day before rehearsal. Louis leans against the sofa and frowns at Harry as he hauls one after another out of his bedroom and stacks them by the door. He doesn’t comment and he doesn’t help.  

Harry has to stay late at the studio for some vocal coaching and so Louis’ been home for at least an hour, maybe two, when Harry’s cab pulls up to their place.

He tells the driver to wait and runs in to grab his things. But the front hallway is empty. Harry’s things are gone. He calls for Louis several times and receives no answer.

Harry wanders into his room and finds his things in pile beside his bed, which has been remade. A note written sloppily on the back of a receipts sits atop his duvet.

_Haz,_

_Please stay. You’re better off here than anywhere else. We can just be friends or roommates or bandmates. I don’t care. Just don’t leave._

_Yours,_

_Lou_

_P.S. I’m sorry if I upset you._

Harry lies down and rereads the letter. His bedsheets smell like like cinnamon and chocolate, like Louis. He buries his face in his pillow and breathes deeply.

He sends the cab away and texts Zayn, _never mind._

_~_

When Harry wakes the next morning, Louis’ at the breakfast bar flipping through twitter on his phone and sipping a steaming cup of tea. There’s a second cup by his elbow and, without a word, he pushes it toward Harry. It’s milky brown and not too hot, just the way Harry likes it.

That evening, after practice, the two of them sit together on the couch in the living room watching reruns of ‘Sixteen and Pregnant.’ Louis keeps up a steady commentary on the parenting potential of each new mother, noting in _every single case_ how he’d do things differently.

Harry doesn’t say much. He can’t imagine being a parent, especially not now, not with a career ahead of him.  And, he supposes, as a male omega it’s probably not in the cards for him in the long-term either, even if he does eventually bond (a fate he’s still hoping to avoid). He does like kids though, and babies most of all, so Louis’ pointed excitement at the prospect of being father makes him wistful.

During their next rehearsal, just as they’re finishing running through the final blocking which ends with the boys in a row, shoulder to shoulder, Harry pressed up against Louis’ side, Harry is hit with a wave of unexpected nausea. The feeling echoes through him, more in his head than his stomach and he realizes that _he’s_ not feeling nauseous; _Louis is._

Harry looks over to see sweat dripping down Louis’ forehead and into his eyes. All the boys are hot and a little out of breath, but Louis looks awful. _Thirsty_. He knows it’s true as soon as he thinks it and he breaks formation to rush over to the corner of the room where his water bottle is tucked away. There’s three water bottles lined up beside his own, one for each of the other boys except Louis, who must’ve forgotten his at home.

Louis accepts Harry’s with a grimace and a nod. As he gulps it down, Harry’s filled from his core to his fingertips with a warm, tingling sense of gratitude and relief.

As the tour nears, they’re not talking, him and Louis, not quite friends again. But they’re not avoiding each other either. So that’s probably good.

~

This time when Harry starts to feel the itch under his skin, when his face and palms become hot and everything begins to smell that much more fragrantly, he knows what’s happening and he knows what he needs to do. He’s been over it with his doctor and with the team and with the other boys.

As soon as he feels the heat come on, he’s to alert whoever he’s with and head straight to containment, which, here in London, means the scent-safe basement of his new home with Louis.

All things considered, the timing’s relatively convenient. It’s just a week before the tour begins and Louis’ mum’s in town and he’s taken her out shopping and to dinner.

Harry’d pled ‘really, very tired’ when she’d invited him along, and he’s proud of himself because they’d been going to his _favorite_ restaurant and, if not for Louis’ careful but clear disinterest in Harry’s response, he might’ve said ‘yeah, okay.’

About a half an episode of ‘Friends’ later, Harry had had to admit to being not tired at all. In fact, he’d felt needy- he’d assumed from Louis’ rejection- and a little wired. Now, he realizes that might have been hormones.

Nonetheless, he’d given into his loneliness and shot a text to Niall (who he knew was also prone to lonely spells) inviting him over for dinner and a Harry Potter marathon.

So Niall’s there, legs thrown over Harry’s lap, eyes mostly closed after finishing his third beer, when Harry recognizes what’s happening. And, truth be told, what helps him sew the threads together is the pull and tug of Niall’s scent.

Harry doesn’t remember ever having been able pick it out before. These days he mostly just smells Louis, with the occasional whiff of Zayn. He’d almost forgotten Niall would eventually have a scent of his own.

But tonight Niall’s so pungent that Harry can almost taste him- sweet and cool and ripe, an apple right off the tree. Harry realizes he’s caught hints of it before, but it’s never been as loud- or as tempting- as it is right now.

Niall can smell him, too. Harry’s sure of it. He’s sitting closer than usual with his bum tucked up against Harry’s side, already half-hard in his pants.

Harry remembers that Niall had insisted that he wasn’t interested in Harry, that he liked _girls_ , but his arousal is undeniable and Harry _knows_ he’d be the perfect stopgap to Harry’s oncoming heat- easygoing, playful and affectionate. Most importantly, Harry knows he wouldn’t expect anything in return.

Harry rests a hand- lightly, just as a test- on Niall’s thigh and squeezes. The heat of his skin seeps through the leg of his jeans and Harry’s dick twitches in his pants. He wonders if Niall had felt it.

“Niall,” he says. His voice is already rough. _Fuck_. He’s not sure if the heat is coming on faster than before or whether he’s still a failure at recognizing the signs because he’d figured he had another hour or so before the wet throb of his arse set in.

But he can feel it starting now, muscles tensing in anticipation.

To Harry’s great dismay, Niall moves away. He’s frowning, too, but he’s looking at Harry and he still _smells_ like he probably wants him.

“Niall,” Harry tries again. “We should…” He leans towards Niall, and it’s like instinct or something, the smile he feels rise up in him, the way his hands just sort of float to toy with the neckline of Niall’s t-shirt. It’s so stereotypically sexy that it should be funny- usually Niall would be in fits over this type of come-on. Usually _Harry_ would be in fits over this type of come-on.

But the way Niall’s pupils dilate, the way Harry’s arse is starting to feel slick, and the way Harry’s certain they can both already imagine what Niall’s knot would feel like _inside_ him – these things are decidedly un-funny.

“I think,” Harry begins, sliding a finger against Niall’s collarbone. This time, Niall doesn’t pull away. So that’s good. “You should help me out.”

Niall swallows, reaches up to finger one of Harry’s curls, and then takes a deep breath. Harry mimicks the action, almost gasping for air- he’s getting hot enough, horny enough, to feel a bit dizzy with it.

They’re both still for a long, _long_ moment and Harry knows he’s shit out of luck.  

The problem is clear: “Everything smells like Louis.”

Harry pouts. “We could go downstairs,” he suggests. It’s where he’s supposed go anyway and, “Louis’ never been downstairs.”

Niall moves back then and shakes his head. “ _You_ smell like Louis.” Harry’s about to protest because that can’t be true, when Niall adds, “And I still like mostly only girls, okay?”

Harry bites his lip. “That’s a definitive statement.”

Niall adjusts his pants and moves to sit on the loveseat, half a room away from Harry. He should leave, probably. Harry should ask him to go.

“What I don’t get,” Niall tells him as he opens his phone, hopefully to call for a ride. “Is why you won’t let _Louis_ help you.”

Harry frowns. It’s not a bad question. “Louis doesn’t want to help me through heats. Not like you would anyway.”

“Oh,” Niall says, tapping away at his phone. “Weird.”

Harry chews his lip. “I think that he-“ Harry begins at the same time as Niall says, “Have you asked him to?”

Harry doesn’t know how to explain to Niall the disharmony that’s settled between himself and Louis. Though that’s partly because the fog of his heat keeps derailing his train of thought at the idea of Louis, sending it fast and hard toward ideas of Louis kissing him, marking  him, knotting him.

Finally he settles on the statement, “We want different things.”

Niall looks of up from his phone at that. His brows are furrowed in disbelief. “No way.”

Harry nods and keeps his eyes trained on Niall’s face. He has a very nice nose, not nearly as nice as Louis’, but nicer than the average nose. Probably part of the reason he smells so fucking good right now. Except, no, that doesn’t make sense at all.

Harry’s arse throbs wetly. He needs to get his toys and head to the basement.

“You both want his knot in your arse, right? I don’t see what the problem is.”

Harry _does_ want Louis’ knot in his arse. God, he needs _someone’s_ knot in his arse right now. He shifts a foot underneath and it presses up against hole, providing momentary relief.

But then he looks back at Niall who’s got a hand on his dick and feels weak with need again. Niall’s eyes narrow and he stands slowly, gingerly, as if he feels some of the achiness in Harry’s joints. Hell, he probably can. “I’m going to leave, now, before Louis and his mum get back. Don’t think he’d be too happy to see me here.”

Harry closes his eyes and focuses on the fact that Louis is coming home. Louis will be here any minute. Louis can take care of Harry, calm him down, cool him off, and fill him up.

Niall moves toward the door and a wave of panic sweeps over Harry. Maybe Louis is on his way back, but Niall’s here _now_. He _has_ to stay.

As he slips into his shoes, Niall says, “I’m texting Louis to hurry.”

“No,” Harry moans, spreading himself out on the couch. He’s sweating now and his shirt and pants cling to his skin uncomfortably. “For Louis, it’s all so _serious_. Too serious.”

Niall pauses. His voice is hard, harder than Harry’s ever heard it- suddenly laced with an alpha’s certainty- “Bonding is really _fucking_ serious, Harry. As an omega, you should understand that.”

The firmness of Niall’s tone is overwhelming and Harry can feel the tinge of bitterness it carries. He hasn’t meant to disappoint Niall or Louis or _anyone._ And he feels ashamed at the idea of failing as an omega. It normally wouldn’t bother him so much, but right now he needs an alpha. Niall. Or _Louis_.

He replays Niall’s words in his mind. Of course bondingis serious. Harry _knows_ that. He’s pretty sure he knows it far better than Niall or Louis. Whether he chooses to bond or not, the consequences for him are heavier- _worse,_ he thinks- than they are for any alpha. That’s why he doesn’t want to bond yet, not now.

“I don’t want to bond,” Harry calls out, but Niall is gone. And Louis is gone and no one seems to care what he wants, anyway.

His arse twitches and he thinks about Louis’ cock and wonders how far away it is at this moment. It’s probably soft, tucked inside his pants, as he walks or eats or chats with his mum, completely unaware that Harry’s arse is desperate for it.

Harry has a dildo, three actually, up in his room, and he knows he should grab them and head to the basement. He’s desperately tempted to wait here, strip, maybe, and finger himself until Louis arrives to find him.

God, he can only imagine how Louis would react. He’d strip, too. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps he’d simply pull his cock out of his pants and begin rubbing it against the crease of Harry’s arse, pushing Harry’s fingers out of the way and replacing them with his own.

It would be _perfect_. Harry tugs his shirt over his head. His hands are fumbling with the buttons of his pants when his phone pings, alerting him of a text message.

When Harry sees Louis’ face on the screen, he’s caught for a second, forgetting that he has words to read and clothes to get rid of.

He blinks and through his haze makes out, _my mum and i are almost back please be downstairs_

Louis’ _mum_. Oh god.

Harry’s body moves automatically, gathering up his clothes and his phone. He drops his shirt onto to the floor of his room and slides his pants off to fall beside it. Fully naked, he picks up his box of toys and his phone and heads to the basement, just as Louis had instructed.

Harry notices the absence of Louis’ scent immediately and he feels that much more _empty_. As he lays the dildos out across the duvet, he curses his doctor.  

At his doctor’s insistence, he’d arranged for a cleaning service to prepare the basement a few days back. He’d wanted to do it himself, but Cal had insisted that he have it done by professionals, by _betas_ , because a scent-free space would be far more comfortable. Harry interacted intimately with too many alphas on a regular basis to do the same quality of work.

Well, _Doctor_ Cal, if he even _was_ a doctor, had been wrong.

The scent-free space is cloying in its own way, overwhelming him with desperation and loss. He takes a few deep breathes and tries to remember why it is not a good idea for him to wait out this heat in Louis’ bed.

Louis doesn’t even have to join him, Harry thinks, the smell of rich chocolate and cinnamon that clings to his sheets would be almost enough. It would be better than being _so far away_.

Harry lies down and closes his eyes, holding his hands firmly at his sides. His whole body is on fire and the tips of his fingers itch to caress his own stomach and thighs, to pluck his own nipples, to slide up and up into the slippery hollow of his arse. He’s not sure which to touch first. The desire to try to feel everything all at once paralyzes him. And so, eyes damp, throat tight, he waits for sensation orsleep to overcome him.

His phone pings again and, for a moment, he’s irritated that he’s brought it down with him. He doesn’t want to be interrupted and he _definitely_ doesn’t want anyone to witness his heat-madness, not the hoarse whine of his voice nor the way, even in his mind, his words are tripping and stumbling in their attempt to make sense.

But the phone _is_ here and it’s here, also, at Cal’s insistence, _for safety_. In case he needs something or in case someone needs him. It’s for _emergencies_ only.

_Emergencies._

He picks up the phone and it almost slides out of his sweat-slick hands.

It’s Louis.

Harry can picture him, now back from dinner with his mum, in his room with his pajamas bottoms halfway on, a little worry line appearing on his forehead as he thinks about Harry down in the basement alone. Actually, Harry would bet he hadn’t even finished undressing before pulling out his phone to text, _you alright?_

The idea of Louis worrying about Harry and worrying about him _right now_ settles something that Harry hadn’t even noticed roiling around inside him.

_No_ , he answers, whimpering as he presses send. Because he isn’t alright.

Much of the time he likes he being an omega; he likes the way he can make people _look_ at him, the way people go out of their way to please him, to coddle him. He likes _that_ part of his gender.

But this, this desperation, this _need,_ this deep _discomfort_ , he hates. Right now, he wants to rip out his hormonal glands and ship them back to hell where they belong.

His phone pings again. _Do you have a dildo?_

Harry doesn’t really want Louis to know about his toys- they’re _private_. His doctor had given them to Harry during his last post-heat check-up and he’d kept them hidden in box under his bed ever since. Most omegas have something, though, even bonded ones. They can be fun, as well as useful, at least that’s what Cal had said. Harry can’t imagine pulling them out when he’s not in heat, though.

It’s not that he doesn’t think he’d enjoy them, but, like, he’s loud when he fingers himself.   These would probably have him _screaming_. Louis would hear. Fuck, he would probably _know_ exactly what Harry was doing.

Harry swallows and runs a finger along the rubber head of a frighteningly realistic flesh color dildo. He texts back, _yes._

Louis knows exactly what Harry’s doing _now._

Almost as soon as he’s sent it, he receives, _I can smell the clothes you were wearing earlier. So good Harry._

Harry imagines Louis scenting them when he first walked into the house, the fragrance thickening his cock almost immediately. He imagines Louis waiting until his mum had showered and brushed her teeth to slip down the hallway and into Harry’s room to retrieve them from the floor and bring them back to his own bed, where, maybe, right now, he’s lying, face buried in Harry’s shirt.

Harry looks down at his phone again to see another text from Louis, _good. Are you using it?_

Harry shifts his legs, reveling in the stickiness between them. The change in pressure provides a moment of relief and he’s able to text back, _not yet_

He waits now, eyes on the phone because he thinks-no, he _hopes_ \- that maybe, even from all the way upstairs, through the scent barrier and several sets of locked doors, Louis is going to help him through this.

_Yeah okay r u touching urself_

Harry smiles and lets out a shaky breath. Louis’ descent from proper grammar into text speak sends a fizzle of energy through him. Louis is definitely affected by their conversation, and it’s been simple so far, not the least bit explicit.

Harry wonders if he could muster the coordination to send Louis a picture- to prove to him that no, Harry’s expressing a great deal of restraintand keeping his hands still, pinned to the bed. He decides it’s not worth the effort he would expend.

Instead he texts, _come and see_

He means it, too. He doesn’t want to bond with Louis, or with _anyone_ , that’s still true, but at this moment it seems like it wouldn’t be that great of a sacrifice to make in exchange for the comfort of having Louis to help him this heat and every one that will follow.

He looks down to see another message from Louis, another _four_ messages actually.

_No haz thats the heat talking_

_I can help tho_

_U should touch urself ur neck, ur nipples, ur tummy, ur thighs_

_pretend its me_

Harry can’t process the first two texts and his eyes skip almost immediately to the third. Louis wants Harry to touch himself. He whines. As gently as he can manage, he brushes the tips of his fingers across his throat, glances them over the hard pink nubs of his nipples, and then, pressing harder, slides them down his stomach, underneath his thighs and into the sticky wetness of his arse.

The screen of his phone lights up and he rolls onto his side so that he can read it.

_God u must be soaking down there_

He is and he wants to text back, to tell Louis just how wet he is, to tell him just how much he wants his knot- but Harry’s hand is now slick with his own juices and trembling with need.

He’s saved the effort by Louis’ next message: _don’t worry about me baby keep those fingers in ur arse_

He doesn’t know how Louis knew what he was thinking and he finds he doesn’t care. He’s just glad, _so glad_ , that even from a far, Louis can anticipate him, can _care_ for him.

He adds another finger and then another, and thrusts and thrusts- fucking himself- but it’s not enough, he’s not sure that anything will ever be enough.

Harry watches his phone and waits for Louis’ next instructions. Louis will know; he has to, he’s _meant_ to. He doesn’t have to wait long.

_Im sure ur doin so good haz_

_get a toy 1 shaped like me_

Harry pulls his hand out and reaches for the lifelike cock on beside him. His still wet fingers leaving glistening streaks on it as it slips and slides in their grasp. He brings it around behind himself and is lining it up when Louis’ next message comes through.

_Now suck it_

Harry groans, an ugly, irritated noise that he wishes Louis could hear. He needs _something_ to fill him so badly.

_When you lick it pretend ur lickin me_

Harry stiffens and then brings the dildo around to hold it right in front of his mouth. He can imagine that it’s Louis’. He can imagine Louis standing in front of him thick and hard, demanding to be sucked. And Harry wants to do that for him, to taste him, to make him feel _so_ good.

Harry licks it first, several strokes up and down its length, tracing the veins, and then a flick of the tongue underneath the ridge of its head.

Then he pulls it all the way into his mouth, swallowing down as much of it as he can manage, letting the bulk and weight of it fill him up. He can taste traces of himself on it, where his fingers had held it and the flavor of it has him moaning.

He wishes it tasted like Louis.

With his hand he thrusts it deeper, down his throat. He imagines Louis would have difficulty controlling the canting of his hips and so he pushes farther, gasping and choking.

His phone buzzes and, coughing, he extricates the dildo from his mouth to see what Louis’ sent.

_Alright. Im nice and hard now._

_slide me around a little bit on ur crack._

_Ur so wet for me.  I want to feel it._

Without hesitation, he does as Louis asks. The rubber slips around more on the crease of his arse more than he imagines Louis’ cock actually would, even as wet as he is, and the wrongness of it is distracting.

He wants _Louis._

His phone buzzes again, and just seeing Louis’ name eases the hunger a bit.

_If ur ready stick in bt just the head_

_Well take it slow_

Harry swallows, as he’s practically salivating with desire. Actually, he’s wet everywhere, his skin is damp with sweat, his arse is slick with sex, and his eyes are filling up with unshed tears of frustration. He does not want to take this slowly.

Still, he does as Louis says- he wants to please Louis, to make him _proud_ \- and slides the dildo in, settling it just an inch inside himself. His arms are shaking, he’s not quite able to hold it up, and he’s sure it’ll fall out if he doesn’t _clench_ hard enough.

_Hows your dick_ , Louis sends him.

_You about to come_

Harry hasn’t thought about his dick in ages, not since he’d first come downstairs. He’s been too distracted by the pulsing of his arse and the itching of skin and by _Louis._ But, somehow, Louis knows Harry’s body. He’s right.

Harry’s dick is stiff and sticking out ramrod straight, just a couple inches above the mattress and Harry realizes that if he were to sink down and press in, he might find some relief in the friction of his cock against the cotton sheets. It might be painful, burn a bit, his cock isn’t dripping nearly as much as his arse, but, _fuck,_ if it wouldn’t feel so good.

_Dont touch it babe_

Louis is torturing him, Harry realizes. He’s not coming down here, he’s staying up in his own room, toying with Harry through texts and he’s _enjoying_ himself.

_ull only get hard again and itll b more difficult to get off_

_wait till ur all filled up_

_itll b better I promise_

Harry winces. Louis’ right, he knows. The truth of his statement wasn’t something Harry had discovered until after his first heat when he’d read the ‘Surviving Heat Comfortably’ pamphlet the doctor had given him. The fewer orgasms he tried for the easier they’d come and the sweeter the relief. He’d also save his wrist an ache and his dick a burn. Harry wonders how _Louis_ knows this.

Harry finds the energy to shift the angle of the dildo and the tug sends shivers spiraling up his spine to the very roots of his hair.

_Further now_

Harry shoves it an inch deeper and it hurts a bit because he’s just this side of too desperate to be careful.

_And further_

Harry can’t hold back. He pushes the toy all the way inside him and it’s too slick and too easy. Harry’s arm is getting tired and the room doesn’t smell right and Harry wishes that Louis had come downstairs.

He looks down to see that his dick has begun to leak onto the sheets.

Harry imagines that Louis _is_ here, that the not quite right pressure in his arse is Louis and that his own hand which he wraps around his cock is Louis’ hand. He imagines Louis’ breathing instructions into his ear instead of sending them over text and he imagines that Louis’ warmth and Louis’ scent is enveloping him, not the cool sterility of the room overrun by his own now too rich odor.

He wonders if Louis is imagining the same thing. As much as it scares him, he hopes so. It isn’t fair that he should be so affected by whatever deep attraction has settled between them without it driving Louis mad as well.

Harry _needs_ to know where Louis’ at with all this.

He reaches for his phone and his fingers slip across the board, but he manages to type and send _r u hot_

It’s not really a clear or coherent question. Even in his heat-clouded state Harry knows that. Still, Louis’ must understand because his immediate response is _I want u so bad but im sure ur doin so good._

Harry’s hand, which has found its way back to his cock, tightens and speeds up.

He’s close to coming but the ache in his limbs is distracting, as is the twist of the shoulder he’s lying on and the soreness of the shoulder helping to guide the dildo in and in and in and in to his arse.

Louis texts, _fuck Im knotted up just thinking about u_

That does it for Harry. He can picture Louis’ knot- he’s seen it before and he wishes he could see it now- or rather he wishes he could _feel_ it now tying him off and filling him up.

His climax hits hard and a waterfall of come that _just won’t stop_ pours out of him. It’s not enough in his arse and he might have to go another round in another hour or so, but right now he’s _so_ tired. He needs to rest.

The last thing Harry sees before his eyes close is another text from Louis. _Let me know when you’re better, babe. I’ll help you clean up._

~

Louis is true to his word, knocking on the basement door not ten minutes after Harry texts him that he’s up. He’s carrying a bowl of cereal and cup of tea and there’s a steaming towel thrown over his shoulder.

He insists on cleaning Harry up first. No matter how much Harry whines about soggy cereal and cold tea, Louis insists the hot cloth will be worth it.

He might be right.

Harry lies back in the sheets, still tangled, but no longer damp with sweat, and lets Louis do the work. Louis wipes down Harry’s face first, pausing to run a hand through Harry’s curls. He moves on to rub across Harry’s chest and under Harry’s arms and Harry moans at the pleasant tickle of it.

Louis has to press a little harder to get at the dried come on his stomach, but he’s still so tender that the burn of it feels almost pleasant. It’s been a long time since anyone’s cared for him like this. Vaguely, he wonders if it should make him feel childish or pathetic, but it’s only a passing thought because what he actually feels is a settled sort of bliss.  

As Louis works, Harry lets himself revel in his scent. It’s not arousing; Harry’s cock is too fucking tired to get excited. No, the rich spiciness is calming. It relaxes Harry’s tight muscles and aching joints nearly as effectively as the moist heat of the towel.

Harry’s eyes, which had drifted shut as he reapproached sleep, fly open when Louis moves between his legs and he feels his whole body stiffen in anticipation.  His cock even gives a weak little jump. Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s hip and then, breath brushing Harry’s skin, murmurs, “It’s alright. I’m just going to clean you up.”

And he does, threading the cloth through his thighs, scrubbing carefully at the dried patches of slick and come. Harry’s still so sensitive, though, that even Louis’ light touch stings and Harry can’t help but whimper.

Louis squeezes his hip. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says. And, then, “Thank you.”

Louis pulls back and sets the cloth aside. “Of course.”

But Harry knows there’s nothing ‘of course’ about what’s happening between them. Just a couple weeks back, Harry had told Louis in no uncertain terms that he did not want to make a life with Louis. That Louis is here, after helping Harry through his heat with those texts, caring for Harry’s heat-sore body, and being _so_ lovely about everything, is far from inevitable.

Harry sits up and Louis passes him the bowl of cereal. Louis watches Harry eat with a happy smile. Harry wants to lean over and kiss him. He doesn’t, but only a moment after he’s thought it, Louis leans forward and touches his lips to Harry’s temple.

“I’m glad you texted last night. I’m glad I could be with you, kind of.” He’s gazing steadily at Harry, his blue eyes no doubt testing Harry’s response.  

Harry needs to be upfront with him.

“I still don’t want to bond with you.” Harry can’t look at him when he says it, so instead he focuses on the cup of tea in Louis’ hands.

“I know,” Louis replies. His voice is low, tired. “Maybe there are other ways I can help, though.”

Harry shrugs. He’d _like_ Louis’ help, but he’s not sure how he’d resist taking everything that’s on offer, especially while he’s in heat. Still, he agrees, “Maybe.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com).


End file.
